“Three Disasters, One Flat: A Memory Blast from Our 20s”
MEMOIR BLAST — PART ONE
The Pant Liner on the DM Boot
I’ve always used pant liners on and off in my adult life. I mean — I had a baby at 18, gave birth before I’d ever had an orgasm. I didn’t even know what was going on down there. I was ripped to shreds, left alone, numbed, and when it all wore off, everything was pulled out — literally pulled out. I tore. I learned a lesson I didn’t even know I was going in for. It’s a man’s world, and the practice of labour is still a joke today — and he’s 34 now.
But anyway, back to the pant liner.
We lived in a flat — the first place we lived as a family. We were young, early twenties. I didn’t have a bin in the bathroom, so when I went to swap the pant liner, for some reason I put it on the side by the toilet roll holder. I must’ve got distracted — very easily done with me.
I must’ve wiped, thrown the tissue, and forgotten about the pant liner. What I think actually happened is this: the pant liner fell to the floor. I looked later and it wasn’t there. The action was done.
We were having friends over that day — Rich’s band were practising. While we were all in the kitchen, two things happened that day. This is the first.
I noticed one of the band members had the pant liner stuck to his DM boot.
My AuDHD brain locked onto it immediately. A room full of metalheads all dressed the same — and one man with a bright white pant liner attached to his boot.
So while carrying on the conversation, getting everyone drinks, pretending to be normal, all I could think was: the pant liner, the pant liner, the pant liner.
Luckily, he was the last to leave the kitchen. As he walked out, I bent down quickly and touched the pant liner. It came off without him realising, and he carried on walking.
Crisis averted. For now.
MEMOIR BLAST — PART TWO
The Pant Liner on the Cooker Top
Everyone was standing around the kitchen chatting, taking photos,with a real camera 14 disposable, talking about life and how they were all going to become huge rockstars — and honestly, they were a good metal band. They were called Scarbabeaus.
I was proud of everything — my kitchen, my cooker, my clean home. I only had one baby then, happily sitting in his Cozy Coupe, being his sweet little self.
Dan — gorgeous, long hair, very Doors energy — was leaning against my cooker. He was always warm, always saying “It’s hot in here,” so I opened the back door.
Fun fact: he was the only person besides my brothers who called me “Babs.” He called me “Abs,” a version of it, and I loved that.
Unknown to us, while leaning on the cooker, he had turned it on.
My beautiful cooker top had a lid, and underneath were four ugly rings. I’d bought pretty metal covers to hide them. The heat travelled through the metal tray, burned the tray, heated the lid, and then started cooking him.
He was literally cooking his backside.
He lifted himself slightly, confused, saying it was still hot — but he didn’t realise he was burning. He didn’t have the reaction time. He just felt warm.
When we realised, everyone burst out laughing. I was laughing too, but also a bit sad — I loved those cooker-top covers.
The heat burned through the ring, the tray, the lid, and his jeans.
“Sadly, Dan died at 36. Here, in this memory, he would have been 17 — maybe 18.”
MEMOIR BLAST — PART THREE
The Grown Man in the Cozy Coupe
Later that same afternoon — because apparently the universe wanted a trilogy — Dan got into the Cozy Coupe. Anyone with kids knows the one: orange and yellow, firm plastic, steering wheel that never broke. Mine lasted twenty years and went through multiple families.
But when a grown man got in it… he got stuck.
At first it was funny. Then it was funnier. Then it was not funny for him at all.
We were mean and left him to it. He eventually wiggled his way out — somehow — and the car remained intact.
Goes to show how well things were made back then. Not like today’s throwaway versions.
A pink one, a red one, an orange one, a yellow one — all replacements. But that car? It survived adult use.
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